


Weather

by speckofsadness



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: @/rpnboo on twitter go check them out, Self projection, This is a vent, collection of vents, dont read if you dont wanna, looooool, made with some of my friends' awesome headcannons, ranboo but hes quarter ghast quarter enderman half human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckofsadness/pseuds/speckofsadness
Summary: inspired by jack stauber's "rain", chopin "nocturne op9 no2", and melanie martinez "crybaby"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osxJ5-_Ccp0&ab_channel=JackStauberhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckg2tv8xJ9o&list=PLlnLxyHYqNhKsdO0AWNdNtxxhzvOGc9fJ&index=62&ab_channel=l0user
Kudos: 29





	1. Rain

It was 4:32 AM. The clock next to his bed ticked slowly. It was broken. He honestly didn't care what time it was, it didn't matter anymore. He laid in his cold sheets, all of his hair pushed on one side of his face, tickling his nose. When he pushed all of his hair to one side, it looked grey. It felt grey too. He would've laughed at the playful texture of his hair brushing against his nose any other day, but today it just reminded him he needed a haircut. He didn't want to get out of bed though.

He felt crinkly. Maybe it was because he hadn't gotten out of bed for 3 days. Maybe it was because red and green tears left faint tracks on his face, probably ruining his skin. Maybe it was because it hadn't stopped raining. It was going to start snowing soon. Maybe it was because he left his record player on loop. It played delicate strands of Nocturne op.9, No.2 by Chopin. The record had been looped downstairs, creating a reverbed noise. It played like that for the entirety of whatever compelled him to lie for that long. Maybe it was because he didn't know what was going on, he was lost and confused. Maybe it was because... he could only say "maybe"s. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Maybe he was sick. Yeah, yeah he was sick. That's why he felt "crinkly".

It was raining outside. He couldn't go in the rain. The kids at school used to push him in the rain on field trips to the overworld. His skin would hiss and snap as he slowly melted, crying in pain. They called him a crybaby. He didn't understand why. They were the ones who shoved him out in the rain. Why did they push him out there? He didn't do anything wrong to them. At least he was safe in his bed now. That's the only place he felt safe.

Sometimes he wasn't even safe there. His mum would come in and tell him to do things, usually to clean his room. He really wanted to clean it, he truly did. He couldn't comprehend why he couldn't. Occasionally, he just felt... blue. He did the best he could, laying in bed, willing himself that he would get up, get changed, and go outside when he could.

But, he just couldn't. He didn't sleep either. Every time he closed his eyes, flashbacks happened. He was 7. It was usually the older kids who were the culprits. They went to see a theatre once. There was an orchestra. A glamorous, glossy, shiny black piano stood centre stage. It stood out to him. There was something about the way the pianist hit the keys, stern but caring. And the way the violinists cradled their instruments, the elegance and the poise of their arms, wrists, their posture. It was beautiful. He was safe inside the theatre, he was held by the music, nobody could hurt him. It brought joy to his life, he felt passionate about something. He bought a piano shortly after that, and in the years following he had learned waltz, romance and classical songs. He felt good about something. He played it for a girl he liked once. She liked it. He gave her flowers, it was something he could do well. He wasn't very good with emotions. Or romance. But he could play songs. He still had his piano, it sat downstairs. It hadn't been used for a good month. He hadn't been out for a good month.

He was running low on food. 

It wasn't normal for him to feel like this. Pulling his gaze from wherever he spaced out to, he looked outside. It was grey. Dark. Cloudy. It's still raining. The rain is okay. He just couldn't get wet, it'd hurt too much. Whenever he got in bed, it usually felt like the rain stopped. It didn't feel like that. It's still raining. Why is it still raining, I did everything I was supposed to. This isn't fair. It's not fair. I just wanna feel better. I want clear skies.


	2. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jubilee line muffled - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPxIB8P9y54&list=LL&index=3&ab_channel=Itvcuzynot

It had been days since he got out. People tried to bring him gifts, things like soup, blankets, and trinkets did nothing. He wasn't sick like that. His record player had come to a stop. After days of straining faint notes played by the whimsical hands of Chopin, it finally came to an end. He had developed a twitch while he laid in bed, he was playing imaginary notes. His hands were itching to play again, but he just couldn't. Ghostbur visited a couple times, sitting outside of the window and playing for him as he fell asleep. He had memorized the chords, the notes, the melody, the strumming pattern. The lyrics were imprinted into his mind. Jubilee Line's opening chorus played every nightly set. G, G, B, G. Repeat. F, G, B, G. Repeat. E, G, B, G. Repeat. The bass string rung out in his brain. Then the harmonic strum of I'm Sorry Boris, Ghostbur's soft, muffled singing.

Currently? It was 1:27AM. He had only gotten out of bed to grab another blanket and use the bathroom. He was sat up in bed, staring at the stars. Orion's belt shone brightly outside. There was something missing. There was something more he couldn't put his finger on. A swirling sensation in his stomach, some would describe. Maybe it was anxiety from the thoughts and memories he relived during his bed-ridden trial. He missed that girl, he thinks. Or did he miss someone to please? His head was sporadically scattered full of negative thoughts. He really missed her.

On warm days, they would sit inside his old home playing piano together. She wanted to play the higher keys, singing sweetly along to whatever they played. He didn't sing, not anymore. He always used to when around her. There was something about her, the way her laugh sparkled like diamonds, the way her thick, light curls framed her face when she smiled at him, the way her smile gave her happy dimples, the way the sun hit her outline just right, giving her an angelic glow. He felt like he loved her. Nothing about her was flawed. Her voice (from a vocalists' standpoint) was beautiful and breathy. She resembled a goddess, light complexion and all. And he let her go. He fucking loved her. She loved him too. They would've been perfect.

Late at night, he complemented his mistakes. His mother called him a mistake once. He was playing a complex Mozart piece, hands bouncing across the black and white keys, and messed up a chord. Her temper was off that day, he knew better than to piss her off on an "off day". She started omniously counting down from 10, scaring him as he ran into his room to hide. He locked the door behind him, panicking. She jiggled a hair pin in the lock until the door opened. Her face was forgiving, her words weren't. "My little boo-bear", she cooed, stroking his hair as he sat on his bed. He could still feel the way her forever-long nails rubbed his scalp, slowly digging down into his neck. There was something so, passive yet controlling about it. He missed it. He wanted to go back. She did the same act a couple times, yet he still wanted back. He couldn't put up fucking boundries. He just kept fucking running back.

Sitting himself up, his back sweated. Things were getting too vivid. When he used to have episodes like this (he hadn't for years), his piano girl would come over. They sat in the parlor of his victorian house, him laying on the couch in a knit blanket, her playing sweet waltzes. She taught him how to dance. He still had the records he learned from. They played regulary when he had company over. The president seemed to like his music.

The clock beside him ticked. Then ticked again. He stared at the ceiling. He was worse now. He used to be so amazing. He was just burnt out now. He didn't go out. He didn't see anyone. People stopped coming. He was hopeless. He was the reason London put barriers on the tube line.

He really wanted to go play again, play waltzes like he used to. Noctune.

He just, couldn't. It hurt. Make it stop hurting please. I can't do this anymore. Please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this at 2am instead of sleeping.


End file.
